"That only makes the matter worse; the slaughter you commit is dreadful."
"Oh!" cried John with a laugh, "the ci-devant Captain Jarvis is a sportsman to your mind. He would shoot a month without moving a feather; he was a great friend"—throwing an arch look to his solitary sister, who sat on a sofa at a distance perusing a book—"to Jane's feathered songsters."
"But now, Moseley," said Grace, yielding the flints, but gently retaining the hand that took them, "Pendennyss and Chatterton intend driving their wives, like good husbands, to see the beautiful waterfall in the mountains; and what am I to do this long tedious morning?"
John stole an inquiring glance, to see if his wife was very anxious to join the party, cast one look of regret on a beautiful agate that he had selected, and inquired,—
"Do you wish to go very much, Mrs. Moseley?"
"Indeed—indeed I do," said the other, eagerly, "if"—
"If what?"
"You will drive me," continued she, with a cheek slightly tinged with color.
"Well, then," answered John, with deliberation, and regarding his wife with affection, "I will go on one condition."
"Name it!" cried Grace, with still increasing color.
"That you will not expose your health again in going to the church on a Sunday, if it rains."
"The carriage is so close, Moseley," answered Grace, with a paler cheek than before, and eyes fixed on the carpet, "it is impossible I can take cold: you see the earl and countess and Aunt Wilson never miss public worship, when possibly within their power."
"The earl goes with his wife; but what becomes of poor me at such times?" said John, taking her hand and pressing it kindly. "I like to hear a good sermon, but not in bad weather. You must consent to oblige me, who only live in your presence."
Grace smiled faintly, as John, pursuing the point, said,—
